Lament
by CatchMeInADream
Summary: A Melisande character study, taking place after the events of Kushiel's Dart.


**Note: Written after the first book, before I'd read any of the rest of the series.**

_Beneath the golden balm  
>Settling on the fields<br>Evenings steals in calm  
>And the farmers count their yields.<em>

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_The bee is in the lavender  
>The honey fills the comb<br>But here a rain falls never-ending  
>And I am far from home.<em>

__

_~The Exile's Lament, as penned by Thelesis de Mornay_

**Lament**

Let it not be said that Melisande Shahrizai is a sentimental woman. I am not. If anything, I am practical, and calm, and calculating, and I cannot waste my time on sentimentalities.

I am, however, D'Angeline, and a scion of Kushiel, and the bittersweet beauty of Thelesis de Mornay's words have never pierced so fiercely at my breast as they do now. 

When I made this choice, when I walked away from my death wearing my cousin Persia's clothing, I did not once consider that I might some day harbor these … regrets. I have never second-guessed myself before this day. I do not like to be uncertain. 

I do not like, for instance, that each morning when I wake, I yearn for the cool breezes of Terre d'Ange. La Serenissima is … nice, in its own way, but even the sun feels different here.

I do not like that I find myself, quite against my will, wondering what I could have done differently all that time ago when I decided to take the throne Ysandre now holds. I suppose it is inevitable, even for me, that I should criticize. Hindsight, as they say, is perfect vision.

My biggest regret, however, is not that I failed in my plans. Plans can be reformed, built stronger and better. No, my greatest regret is my failure with Phédre nó Delaunay. That I contented myself to be enthralled with her, fascinated by her, rather than with owning her. I could have, I am confident, stolen her away from Anafiel Delaunay, or even her pretty young Cassiline. The pull of Kushiel's Dart to Kushiel's Scion is strong. And we are well matched, my Phédre and I, both intellectually and in the bedroom.

Surely I am less than I was then, for I have acquired and kept the diamond she threw at me that day. Ah, my little _anguissette!_ How I underestimated her! My own fault, that I was so arrogant as to fail to see the vixen inside the rabbit-skin.

She haunts me, Phédre nó Delaunay. Every day, I see her face, and I wonder where she is now. I cannot decide if it is because I love her, or because I hate her. In my dreams, she is there. She is naked, we are together, and she is bound and bleeding, begging me to stop and screaming my name, while my right hand moves between her legs and my left slowly crushes the fragile bones in her throat. 

These dreams … they are powerful. They drive me to hunt the streets of La Serenissima; not daily, but often enough that I am uncomfortable with myself. The women here are not Servents of Namaah, that much is clear. They are graceless, pitiful creatures, and their art is not considered an honourable profession but rather an affront to civilized society. As a result, these whores (for that is what they truly are) are unkept and only a shadow of what my Phédre is. But I always manage to find a girl whose skin is pale enough, whose hair is dark enough. My own memory supplies the scarlet mote in dark eyes, and my imagination places upon her back Phédre's finished marque.

This is what I am reduced to. Strong, cunning, independent Melisande, losing herself in doubt and re-enacting cheap fantasies with screaming young girls who do not appreciate my art as my _anguissette_ would.

I am disgusted with myself.

The sun is setting here. It will already be dark in Terre d'Ange. Is Phédre lying down with her Cassiline protector? Or is she accepting another assignation, going forth with quiet dignity, wrapped in that splendid _sangoire_ cloak? I hate myself for wondering.

I close the curtains and face the whore I have invited up to my rooms. I have helped her to kneel, _abeyante_, and her wrists and ankles are bound together with thick black cord. This one is the least like Phédre yet, but she is sturdy, and tonight my anger is strong. To one side, I have placed the set of flechettes I acquired upon my arrival here. I pick one up, and study the girl. She will not love this as Phédre did but she will hate it even more, and that is what I am looking for. Tonight, I do not want to please my Phédre substitute. I want to kill her.

I laugh, and she whimpers. As disgusted as I am by this anguish I feel, the fury makes me stronger. They are unworthy, but I will content myself with these women, these whores, and I will perfect that killing cut. And when I return to Terre d'Ange, to the City where I belong, I will make Phédre nó Delaunay mine, and when I am done with her, her blood will decorate my floors.

But not tonight. Insipid, frail thing that she is, Thelesis de Mornay has the right of it. I am, indeed, far from home.


End file.
